


Local Customs

by Jenett



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Folklore of imaginary places, Goose that chases you toward your soulmate, fictional countries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 18:33:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18104081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenett/pseuds/Jenett
Summary: Imogen had plans for her sabbatical. Geology, a bit of teaching, a lot more geology.Geese were not on the list.





	Local Customs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eida/gifts).



"Hello! Over here!" Imogen looked around blinking, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. There was so much noise around her. People were yelling across the ferry terminal, announcements crackled over the loudspeakers. And there was something she couldn't quite identify, a bleating sound that caught at the edge of her mind before she focused.

She rubbed her face, suddenly exhausted. There had been the morning flight from Heathrow to Amsterdam, a train, then a ferry and a bumpy crossing to this terminal, hours away. Not much further north, though, the sunlight was about what she expected for this time of year. That was something. The sabbatical in Svalbard had taken a lot of getting used to. And the summer in Chile.

She threaded her way between the crowds. A grandmother stopped suddenly, sweeping pre-teen grandchildren into her arms. That was fine, but did they have to take up quite so much space? There was a man presenting a woman with a bouquet of flowers that were going to be terribly awkward to carry if all of those bags were hers. Two women walked arm in arm, fond and loving, murmuring to each other in the way of longtime partners together after separation of some length.

None of them were the assistant from the cultural exchange program. Imogen looked around again, and this time she finally spotted the waving sign, with IMOGEN GRANT in large black block letters. She waved at the holder, dodged two children - maybe six, very blond, one of them in pigtails - playing tag across the terminal, and finally presented herself.

"Isle of Birds University?" She pauses, trying to remember the name, which sounded odd in English. She'd been assured that most people spoke English fairly well. "Fugley? I hope you're Melissa Delib."

The woman was small and dark, tight curls close against her head, a contrast to most of the people around them who were taller and tended to be various shades of blond. Melissa wore what Imogen understood was a common outfit for younger people of knee-high boots, thick trousers or skirt, and a tunic of thicker fabric that came down nearly to the top of the boots. The whole effect was rather charming, as well as practical.

The woman bobbed her head, enthusiastically. "And you're Professor Imogen Grant. Welcome! Did they explain everything to you? I hope?" Her voice had a pleasant lilt to it, the accent.

"There was rather a lot of paperwork." Imogen rubbed her face. It had been a plane, two different trains, then the ferry, to get here. And the original paperwork for this trip had been rather a long time before the stack she'd had to do in customs.

"They told you about the geese?" Melissa seemed rather insistent, leaning forward.

For a moment, Imogen thought she'd said 'geeks', and wondered why that needed a warning or reminder. Then she shook her head. "Geese. Yes." She vaguely remembered it.

There had been a piece of paper in amongst the others. She remembered the goose on the letterhead. But the customs interviewer had said it was just a formality. Especially since it was only a semester, she'd be gone by the late spring. The guard had said something about there usually being a video for anyone here more than four months, and Imogen's trip was right on that line. Imogen was already tired, her feet ached, she was sure she had a bruise from where the plane seat had dug into her thigh. Getting the papers stamped without the video was fine with her.

Melissa was saying something, and Imogen nodded along. She'd done trips like this before, several of them. This was much less worrisome than most. No nasty parasites in the water or lurking in particularly palatable fruits waiting to - well, better not to think about that. No poisonous snakes, not anywhere on the islands.

Thankfully, Melissa was also walking toward the exit, and out to a waiting car, to take her to the university flat that was waiting for her. That part went smoothly, at least. The flat was small and simple and designed for people from other places, so there were helpful instructions about how to use the shower and the kitchen appliances. She was glad to see the Isle of Birds had civilised customs about tea kettles and the fridge was stocked with a range of staples, enough to give her time to sort out a grocery store. Or whatever it was they did here.

*

The next days were full of other new experiences. She knew how to do this, meet and greet the university staff, go through endless lunches and teas and dinner outings. (Oh, they loved them, it was grand to take a break and have a meal on expenses. And Imogen was just as glad not to have to cook.) There was the interminable process of getting online access, and her passwords for the university system. That always had glitches.

The third day had the obligatory tour of the area. They began at the city library, where the very bright and friendly student tour guides, Matilde and Georg, waited patiently for Imogen and the other three people on the tour to get their own library cards and hear about the library's services. The other three had come together, and tended to fall into conversation about their research and plans - something about an archaeological excavation in a bog. Bogs held no interest for Imogen, the land was, by definition, not solid rock.

From there, it was to the city hall, for a formal tea break with the mayor and a few other senior city staff. Imogen was curious about the design of the city hall which had broad open balconies along each floor, but didn't get a chance to ask. Then there was a tour of the central city district, a chance to orient themselves. The guides pointed out a range of restaurants and stores. Walking from one neighborhood to another, Imogen was caught by a building, a U shape around an open courtyard. A few people stood around an open circular fireplace in the centre of the courtyard.

Something about it seemed queer to her. "Is that a block of flats, or - " Her voice trailed off. At home, she'd wonder if it was a care home or something of the kind. The people seemed younger, mostly though there was a man in his mid-fifties, and a couple maybe older. Most of them were in their twenties, though.

The guides looked at her. If she'd been teaching, she'd assume they hadn't done any of their work, and were trying to figure out how to avoid admitting it. Finally, Matilde said "It's the house of the Engingaes."

The term wasn't explained at all, and after a long awkward pause, Georg said. "Those who are not partnered properly." His English was a bit more stilted and formal, Imogen had noted.

"Oh!" She looked up at it. "It seems very pleasant. The courtyard, the planting."

She could tell that she'd said something modestly wrong. Not offensive, that looked different. Not silly. That usually had more laughter. But ... something that didn't fit. She was always doing that, when she talked about things other than geology. Imogen shrugged, then did what she'd learned worked. "Where were we going next?"

A sound made them all turn - a sudden bleating sound. Matilde said something long and low in the local language to Georg, and he smiled, then said "Might be a lucky day for someone. The goose, it is good news, see?" And they could all see that a goose, black on the top, white below, had landed in a corner of the courtyard, eyeing the people around the fire attentively.

*

It wasn't until the next week that it began to sink in; the iconography. It took that long because so much of it was rather subtle. There was a flare of a wing here, a serpentine neck there, a webbed foot worked into a mosaic over here. Taverns, what they called pubs, often had something about geese, obvious on the sign. The more traditional ones did, anyway. Goose's Heart. Goose's Foot. Goose's Course. Something like that. She still didn't know much of the local language, but she began to pick up words. Rede. Gås, Vinge. Fjaer. Eggeskall. That was the name of a rather lovely market.

Imogen paused as she passed a fountain. The sculpture was what in England would be called late Victorian, but without the Victorian staidness, This was a couple in love, kissing, visibly caught up in the moment. And at the four compass points, there were geese, one on either end of the oval rim of the fountain, wings raised, as if herding the two people together, with necks coiled as if to snap at the couple's heels if they misbehaved.

There was a commotion, a little ways away. Someone had been coming over her direction, and a goose was chasing him. An older man, but wearing the tunic and boots of the younger set. She blinked, but the light was behind him, and all she could see was that he was being chased off away from her, toward a row of shops across the road from the park.

Imogen shrugged and turned away. She had an afternoon meeting with the chancellor of faculty, to discuss modern research techniques with an eye to integrating their library systems into the larger world. Imogen wasn't a librarian (librarians generally couldn't be spared for the time these intercultural trips took, or selected for the benefit) but she knew how to have that conversation well enough. And the country's technology worked well enough.

They were if anything a bit more advanced than much of the United States. They'd come later to technology than some places, so they had leapfrogged the early clunky tech and moved much more easily into national wireless access in many places, with a solid infrastructure built with real-time video communication and other high-bandwidth needs in mind. It made her job so much easier.

Much more important than a fountain. Even a pretty one.

*

There were meetings every morning, her class lectures in the afternoon. One general education class, about the British Isles geology, a cross-disciplinary lot. One seminar about her particular speciality and method of investigating fault formations. Participation in the graduate student seminar rotation. The necessary field trips were spread out along the term, but setting up the details took up a lot of the early weeks. Every university she'd been at, as a grad student or a professor - three, plus now three sabbaticals - had their own systems, and no one ever wrote down all of the steps for reserving vans or finding a driver who knew the roads here.

And then there were obligatory social events at least one night in five, invitations to supper or some cultural performance. And there were the meet and greet events at the Consulate, so that British visitors of note could meet locals of particular interest.

Supper was easy enough, she had to eat anyway, and she could get through most of the conversation by asking about the food or the country or the other people's areas of academic interest. The consulate events took forever and involved dressing up and wearing heels, and Imogen had little patience for that, beyond the bare minimum. And the performances, Imogen turned most of those down.

She'd been to far too many interminably long things that would probably be described as opera in English, with stories and references that made no sense to her. And plays were nearly as bad, the jokes never made sense, even when she knew the language. It was the kind of thing you needed a glossary and marginal notes to make sense of. Comedy nights were reliably even worse.

Concerts, though, she went to all of those. Instruments were easier, and even if the music had a chorus and words, it was usually a pleasant enough listening experience without understanding what they were saying.

The geese turned up there too. She'd learned enough words now, to do place names, and so many place names had Goose or Gander or Gosling in them she'd learned them out of self-preservation. She couldn't quite follow the plot of this one, though. It wasn't about the goose finding a gander, it was something about people. But also the goose.

The harmonies were lovely, though, reminding her of that summer trip to Latvia a few years ago, one of the massed concerts of music and dance, ancient folk traditions echoing forward with a resonance and insistence that she found rather charming.

Imogen almost asked her escort, a pleasant young graduate student who'd been deputised to make sure she got to the right places at the right times. But he got very flustered when she asked him certain kinds of questions. Including about the geese.

*

The field trips all went smoothly, in both sets of classes. Her TAs helped her get everyone to the right place, and they had a grand time getting samples and sketching the lines of the rocks at one of the fault lines. Old faults, thankfully. She'd had enough of active volcanoes last time. More than enough. Nice and quiet, that was the ticket here.

The last of the trips, one of her students turned up wearing different clothes. She no longer had on the tunic and trousers and tall boots, but instead a pair of looser slacks, ankle boots, and a lightweight shirt and sweater. The others all oohed and ahed. Imogen wasn't quite sure what to make of it. It wasn't just fashion - the clothes weren't anything special, many others in the city wore similar things. The older ones, mostly. She gathered, hearing the snatches of commentary, that it was some sort of rite of passage, some turning point. But it didn't seem to be an engagement, there wasn't showing off a ring, like a woman would at home, or perhaps some engagement photos. Just the clothes, and an almost tangible sense of relief.

That trip went well, everyone was in a good mood, which always made the work of hiking and taking samples go better. On the drive back - it was a good four hours in the van - they stopped for a break and supper. He parked in the car park at the edge of town, and the group of them walked in to find one of the taverns with a reputation for particularly good beer. Along the way there was a sudden clattering of two geese launching themselves at the fence.

Imogen jumped, nearly into the street, and one of her students, a young man, blinked at her. "You're not used to guard geese, Professor?" He made it sound like the most ordinary thing ever.

She shook her head. "We have guard dogs. If we have something guarding."

"Dogs? But that ..." He cut off, and one of the young women in the class leaned over and murmured in his ear. Her English was not as strong, at least not her spoken English, Imogen knew that. He straightened up, and said. "No offense meant, Professor. They're quite common here. Many people keep their geese in the front yard, with a little shed. See? Each yard." His voice was cautious now, like she had suddenly turned into someone who walked on the ceiling or could only speak in riddles.

"And that works?" She couldn't keep the incredulity out of her voice. Even if it was a bit rude.

He blinked. "Yes, Professor. No one'd go somewhere there were geese. Not like that."

"Always pairs?" There was a chorus of inhaled breaths from her students, and they looked nervously at each other, before one of them broke the tension and said "Come on, we should get supper."

She thought about asking about it on the way back, but then they had a flat tire, and she stood out in the rain with the driver to wait for the replacement van. Five days later, she was over the miserable headache and sniffles, and then she had to work flat out for another week to catch up properly and get the receipts from the trip turned in, and it slipped from her mind.

*

If anything, the next month was busier. It was the end of April by the time she had a chance to breathe, before the last mad rush to final papers. She'd extended her office hours, met students in the geology labs, and half the time she ended up going to the tavern with her TAs for a drink after, so they could explain to her what the students weren't understanding. She bought. She understood the etiquette there, at least.

She'd hoped to catch up on her sleep, but she woke in the middle of the night, hearing something she wasn't expecting. It was a bird. Probably a goose, but maybe it was a duck. She wasn't that well informed about birds.

She rolled over and put the pillow over her head, and the noise faded.

It was back again when she got up, like a distant dog barking. Repeatedly. The sun was pouring in the kitchen window, and she smiled. It had been rainy all of April. The change meant she could finally go and explore some of the outdoor spots of the city, along the canals. She found a comfortable outfit, an ankle length skirt, a shirt, a light sweater. She packed up sandwiches in her backpack, and went off to explore.

She had the feeling she was being followed. Or stalked. That something was fixed on her. Behind her, near her, watching her.

And yet, it was still early. A few people up early, going to the bakeries. She stopped in one, to see if she could see someone lingering outside, but no. Just her and her pastry. She tucked it into her backpack, and went back to walking, pausing to glance in reflective windows a few times, and seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

The feeling got stronger as she went toward the canals. More than that, it seemed to be pressing her in one direction over the others. She'd intended to go up to the bird sanctuary in the centre of the city, and yet, whenever she tried to head in that direction, she felt like something was nipping at her heels, driving her in the other direction, down toward the ancient temple complex now preserved as a public area south of the main city.

After three tries, she finally gave up, and went that direction. The trolley car made the feeling subside a little, but only somewhat. She could still feel it nagging in the back of her head, putting her on edge, peevish at the small children, the sounds of birds, the thump of something on the back of the trolley.

"Oh, someone's got a goose on them." She heard the comment from the back of the trolley, back by the broad windows that gave a full view of the street behind them.

An older woman chortled, "Wonder if we'll get an eyeful?"

Imogen got off at the next stop. The feeling continued. She walked along the canals now, toward a park at the edge, unable to resist craning her neck. It was undignified.

Once she was in the park, she looked around, wanting people nearby. A large carousel was running, with beautifully carved animals on it. Once she got close, she realised they were geese, not the usual horses, or even the range of circus animals. All sorts of geese, different colours, done in rich and glowing paints, not brash ones. Some were sparkling white, some were gray and dappled, some were black, and some were all the colours of the rainbow, radiant jewel tones. Sky blue, sapphire blue, emerald, a glowing ruby red, and an orange the pure colour of a summer sunset, shades of colour without names.

She saw a flutter of movement behind her, and then caught a glimpse of something behind her. When she turned to look at it properly, it turned out to be a grey goose. It seemed out of place, as she'd thought the local geese were darker on top, with a flashy white underbelly.

That one was more subtle, and she supposed it might be some sort of migrating species. She was not a biologist, she did rocks and stones and minerals. They did not move around like birds. (Barring the occasional earthquake or pyroclastic flow, but in such cases, one had other things on one's mind than the colour coming at one.)

That thought was odd. The goose wasn't bothering her. It was, however, between her and the path out, so she went closer to the carousel, to the fence around it. The attendant nodded at her, and said something in the local language. She was just fluent enough to figure out he was asking if she'd like a ride, and to ask how much.

It wasn't too dear. Actually, quite cheap, so she rummaged in her pocket and found the right coin, the one they said was kept in currency for historical reasons, the dirham, and handed it over, feeling the weight shift from her fingers. He bowed her on, and she walked to find a place, settling in the end on a deep teal goose, in a seat placed between its wings. Her legs went over the front, and she felt somewhat ridiculous.

The ride started, the organ at the centre playing a tune she didn't know. Or mostly didn't know, for there were phrases from it that were like what she'd heard in those concerts, a repeating lilting phrase that went up and down, a little false cadence, and then another phrase that tied up in a tidy knot at the end. And the goose went up, and down, and around and around fast enough to make her catch her breath, and hold onto the pole more tightly than she'd meant to.

When the ride slowed, she meant to get off, but the attendant waved at her, and all of a sudden that gray goose was perching near her. When she made a move to swing her leg and get off, it stuck its neck forward and hissed at her, all sharp edges and anger.

Perhaps the goose was protected. Or this was its territory. Presumably, sometime, it would go away and she could get off. Someone else was getting on, anyway, a man about her age, going gray around the temples, wearing the same tunic and boots and trousers she'd seen on younger men, mostly not older ones. He looked vaguely familiar, but not someone she'd met. She thought. It would be so much easier if people had name tags all the time.

The carousel started up again, circled, the music played - a different tune, but one with that same repeated melody woven in. When they came to a stop this time, the man had moved up to a goose beside her.

He said something, in the local language, and she caught only the "Gås" in it. It sounded older, formulaic. If it were English, she'd be blaming King James.

She shook her head, and put on the appropriately puzzled expression that would make it clear she had no idea what he'd said.

"Pardon?" He had a strong accent, the rolling vowels.

She blinked. People here were mostly polite, with the sort of careful attention to personal space that came from a culture that had spent centuries living in longhouses together during a very long winter for warmth.

"You are... is this your goose?" He said the words carefully, like it was a sentence practiced out of context from Duolingo, like "My dragon is red" and "The insect likes potatoes."

Imogen was baffled. "My goose?"

"It follows you?" His English was careful. Precise.

Imogen glanced at the goose. The goose glared at her, it was the only word for it, and then it raised its wings, spread wide, to prevent her going anywhere. She was pinned, now, with this strange man, and a goose. Two geese. There was one craning its neck behind the man, but not mantling like that.

The carousel wheezed to a stop, and there was no attempt to hurry them off or interrupt them. Or get them away from these geese.

She looked up and the man said carefully. "My English is not good. You are, you are..." And then he used a word she didn't know.

"I'm British," she said, and he nodded. That was the sense of it, then.

"Are you hurt?" He gestured slightly. "Your skirt. It is - the geese." It wasn't much of an explanation, but he clearly was wondering if the goose had nipped at her.

"No, I - it hasn't touched me. But it won't let me get off."

He paused, considered, and then said slowly, "I am Karl Visby. I am - I am making a call. For help. I do not..." He paused, tried again. "I will not hurt you. The geese, they - watch. Until certain things. I call. Someone will come explain."

He seemed very earnest about it. Exceedingly so. Imogen nodded. "My name is Imogen. Imogen Grant. I am on sabbatical at the university." She suspected he didn't know the word 'sabbatical', but he got the university part clearly enough. He nodded, his head bobbing, then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a phone, and dialed a number.

It was answered promptly and he began speaking rapidly into it, so quickly she couldn't begin to follow it. Not that she'd really expected to. The occasional words - goose, yes, his name - but that was it.

*

What happened next was a flurry. She and Mr Visby were escorted off to a private room, some sort of conference room, at a small building nearby. The geese came with them, into the room, following along solemnly, stretching out their necks to threaten a nip if either she or Visby so much as thought about getting out of line. The pose struck her for a moment, another memory out of too many new experiences she couldn't quite recall. Someone brought tea, and Visby sat down in an absurdly proportioned conference chair, and watched her.

Imogen was not at all sure what to do with that. She closed her eyes, took a sip of her tea, and as she was setting it down, she felt a nudge at her elbow. The goose's head.

It was softer than she'd thought. The feathers, that was, because it wasn't trying to nip at her or threaten her, now. It was insistently there, though, strongly, pressing between her arm. She was still no biologist, but she was fairly sure this was not normal behaviour for a goose.

"Pardon, you ... this isn't right, Mr Visby. Who did you call?"

"The proper person." And then he coughed. "Karl, please." He sounded wistful about it.

She would have felt more comfortable keeping her distance, but something in her relented despite herself. "Karl."

He smiled at her, fleetingly, then said, carefully. "The proper person. She is coming soon. Important, to say it right."

There was a bit of a commotion at the door, then two people came in, both women, one wearing the local dress but in a rather finely woven wool that had intricate embroidery on the edges. The other she vaguely recognised as someone high up in the British Consulate, wearing a tailored suit.

"Professor Grant? Hildegard Engstrom. You have met Esther Andrews, from the Consulate. We are here to explain your circumstances."

"Ms Engstrom, Ms Andrews. Is there a problem? I didn't - I didn't try to do anything to the goose." Which promptly stuck its head through the crook of her arm again, and craned to peer at the two women.

Ms Andrews lost her composure and started giggling. It was highly unprofessional and utterly baffling, so much so Imogen could only stare. "Hildegard, please. And this is Esther. We'll be talking a good bit." She elbowed Esther and said "Behave."

Not just colleagues, then. There was something there that made them close friends. Possibly partners of another kind. The thought was distracting for a moment, and made her miss them sitting down.

"Professor Grant, we suspect you are not as fully aware of some of our customs as might be preferable."

Imogen frowned, then said, "How can I possibly answer that without knowing what I don't know?"

It made Esther snort, she was barely restraining a laugh. Then she swallowed and said, "We gather you did not watch the video at customs. Most of the time it is not a problem. In this case, it had important information. You see, partnerships are not formed the same way here they are in other places. Such as England."

Imogen frowned. "Partnerships?"

Esther shook her head. "Here, if you are meant to be matched to someone, a goose hatches. It - encourages you toward your partner. It is permitted to have other lovers, other friends, other companions. But that is the person with whom you build your nest. The place you return to." She waved a hand. "It sounds absurd, I know. But the geese pick well." And at that, she looked over at Hildegard, and it was clear that was partnership and love, both.

Imogen frowned, and then looked at the goose, then at Karl. And then back at the goose.

The goose looked up at her, twisting its neck around.

"What does this mean?"

"It means you should plan to make your life here. You can travel, once you have established a home, a nest here. A year or so. But you must live here. Or the goose will fade and die. And so will Karl. And Karl's goose. And that can not be allowed."

Imogen froze. This had to be some sort of ridiculous reality show, surely, with hidden cameras. She looked at Esther, at Hildegard, then finally at Karl, who looked suddenly fragile and uncertain.

She took a breath, then said. "Tell me about yourself, Karl. If - if you can help with vocabulary?" Then, very tentatively, she offered the same sentence in his language, and watched him smile. Imogen let out a breath, still feeling very much out of her depth, but not alone. Not anymore.

*

"No, you don't understand, I am not able to return to the university. It's not a matter of choice." Not really.

Imogen grimaced, and held the phone an inch away from her ear. The dean was very loud.

Karl raised an eyebrow, and held out a spoon, a taste for her. He'd been puttering around in her kitchen while she took this call, some sort of pasta sauce. Not a traditional food for the area. But pasta was one they'd found, adopted, and nurtured, like the people the geese chose. She took the spoon, tasted, and blinked. It was delicious. She nodded, enthusiastically, missing the dean's comment.

"Pardon?" she said, and got a repetition. That this was unheard of, that she was ruining her reputation, and worse - from their point of view - the reputation of the department.

She waited until the dean ran down, and then said, clearly. "I was told that the consular officer was explaining it fully. I have been chosen to remain on the island, and I am not permitted to leave for at least a year. Someone from the consulate will be packing up my flat and arranging things there. They will need access to my office and my materials."

The spluttering went on for another minute. She took a breath, wriggling down into the sofa. Karl set down his spoon, and came around to sit on the other end, patting her free hand lightly.  
"There's a whole process for that." she said. "Teaching me what I need to know."

Another pause, the dean spluttering about how if she'd fallen in love with some undergraduate.

"Nothing like that, and besides, that's nothing to do with you. The university here has offered me a place, the same people I've been working with. Quite pleasant. A rather larger office, actually, and better research support." Once she could travel again, anyway. As well as the benefits she and Karl would apparently get for being goose-partners.

That had confused her, the first three times they'd tried to explain it. That Karl had had a half-life, from the age of twenty to now, in his mid-fifties. People who weren't goose partnered couldn't own property, only rent or live with someone who was properly partnered. He could not travel. He had to live within walking radius of his work - how else would the goose find him properly? (She had tried to question the logic of that. Every person and goose in the room had stared at her like she'd committed the greatest blasphemy in her ignorance.)

He'd had to wear the clothing that marked him as unpartnered, the tall boots and long tunic to protect from an aggressive goose and offer a little padding against buffetting wings. The long sleeves, even in the summer. Big broad pockets to tuck his hands into. Just in case. 

He'd already begun to change his clothing, unfurling like a flower in the sunlight, and she kept catching him staring at his bare forearms. She smiled at him as he did it again, then caught half a sentence.

"I am informing you. I am not asking for your approval. Unless you really want to make an international incident out of it?"

She'd always thought that was hyperbole. But no, if the dean kept going like this, she would find the consular office coming down like a tonne of bricks. Esther had been very clear about that. And Hildegard.

"I'll send an email with the specifics. Within the week. I need to confirm various details of the current grants."

This was winding down. She'd never been on the receiving end of one of these calls before, but she knew the shape of them. It was all bluster now. She was outside the reach of anything the dean might do to her. And my, that was a freeing thought. She nodded, made the occasionally. "Mmm. I'll consider that." comment a few times, and then finally hung up.

"Not kind?" Karl's English was still cautious but rapidly improving. She'd caught him watching English-language television the other day. Which was mostly hilarious because she'd been avidly watching one of the local soaps for the same reasons - vocabulary and idiom. They were still sleeping in their own flats, but spending more and more time together. She liked him. He was kind and thoughtful and patient. He listened, and he asked when he wasn't sure about something. And his cooking was nearly as good as his craftmanship, making things in his store.

"He is not happy." she agreed. "Esther will be fierce." She grinned. "Like a goose."

He laughed. "She is good at that." And then there was a softer. "You like the sauce?"

"Mmmhmm." she says, cheerfully. "I think I'll stay."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for a chance to play with this prompt that also fascinated me. If it helps, I am imagining the Isle of Birds as an island nation, roughly approximating Gotland (but more populated), with a language drawn from a mix of Scandinavian sources.
> 
> The geese are themselves.
> 
> There's an [author's notes commentary on my Dreamwidth](https://jenett.dreamwidth.org/1819017.html) for a bit more background than would fit tidily into comments here.


End file.
